


Love like Ours

by Kicchin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel 3490, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Earth-3490, F/M, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter Stark-Rogers - Freeform, Reincarnation AU, Sad with a Happy Ending, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony and Steve different names because PLOT, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:29:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicchin/pseuds/Kicchin
Summary: Peter Stark-Rogers goes to a trip to a small village in a Romania only to find a peculiar gravestone with two names in them, struck by curiosity Peter tries to uncover the story of the two individuals buried in the same spot. Why is it that so few people seems to know about them? Peter travels to unravel the mystery of a hundred year old love story that was once too a victim of their time.





	Love like Ours

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Hello this is Kicchin and you may have known me from my Spideypool fanfic WILD. My birthday is coming this week, its on the 18th of this month so I kinda made this fanfic for the occasion and I hope you all like this.
> 
> So yeah, some people asks for gifts and stuff on their day, and I do have that too but no I'm not gonna ask for material stuff. For my birthday, in exchange for this fanfic I want you guys to do ONE good deed to three people, one is to someone close to you, one is to a stranger, and lastly to yourself. It doesnt have to be big, doesn't have to be a donation to a charity or something massive. One good deed is not measured by the how much you give but the intent. So yeah, for one day on 18th of December, please do one good thing to someone you love, to a stranger and to yourself, let us all be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man this world needs, give direction to a lost grandmother, maybe a warm cup of coffee to a homeless man, a good luck to a friend taking an exam, a thank you to the waitress serving you food, or a good morning to the security at work, or a long well deserved nap, or an ice cream you've been craving to have, even for just a day and that would make me very very happy.
> 
> Maybe you're asking why I asked that, some of you may be new readers but you see I am massive advocate of mental health and sometimes small acts of kindness from people can make a huge difference in other people's lives. We all have our battles, sometimes we don't see it, sometimes we don't tell people about it but a small act of kindness never fails to remind us that in this cruel world, humanity stands still. 
> 
> I love you guys and I hope you do enjoy this and with that I also want to leave this quote;
> 
> "In the days when it gets colder, have a warm heart."
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know if you like it on the comments below! Advance Happy Holidays!
> 
> This fanfic is inspired by The Story of Emil and Xaver of Sighisoara.

 

Being the son of the two most prominent figure of the 21st century has its perks and one of that would be travelling for vacation, and when travelling he meant _abroad_. Not every kid had this kind of privilege, and to be fair, he isn’t just like _any_ kid in almost every sense of the word. His parents are special, no scratch that, his _whole_ family is special, he _is_ special.

Peter Stark-Rogers is the sole heir of his mother’s multibillion company, a genius engineer, and his father is the America’s youngest Captain to receive a Medal of Honor and subsequently the Presidential Medal of Freedom at the age of 25. They are dubbed as the _power couple_ of America. Two of his Uncles serves as well in the military, one is a Colonel and another a Sergeant while one of his Godfathers is America’s most prominent researchers in Physics.

If people knew, they would be wondering what the son of the billionaire genius and the youngest most decorated Captain is doing in a small village in Romania. Most people would have probably imagined someone with his life would have chosen Caribbean, Maldives, Paris, or probably even Las Vegas, but a established Peter isn’t exactly the kind of your usual type of teen. The loud buzzing usual tourist attractions advertised in travel agencies isn’t the kind of ideal vacation for Peter.

He inhales the cold February air of Romania as he looks down on the small pamphlet he got from the local tourist stop earlier that day. There are very few attractions in the village which are relatively close to each other. At the highest point stands the Church of the Hill which could be reached by a steep covered staircase, the staircase also allows people to reach a small annexed building and a high school, and next to the Church is a German cemetery where memorials of the victims of the first World War rests.

As soon as Peter reaches the area he notices the stark contrast of the black marble gravestone against the think blanket of white snow that covers the earth beneath them. They are all well maintained, according to the pamphlet, the former mayor of the village erected the memorial where all soldiers from the war were laid to rest together, their names, date of birth, death and ranks were engraved on the stones so that every soul that is born in their village would know the valiant efforts of their forefathers. Despite the fact that it is a graveyard, the tourist does not feel any fright but instead there is thick feeling of tranquil.

The gravestones are all arrange symmetrically allowing all names to be visible from anyone who visits. Peter is alone in the yard aside from an old man who in the corner of the plot shoveling the snow off the dirt to the side making sure that no gravestone will be covered. Peter reads their names in his head wondering how hard it must have been that time for these men, and perhaps some of them were only teen like him forced to be men and soldiers.

Life in the front lines is never easy, he knew it as a son of a man who worked in the armed forces, with two of his uncles also risking their lives for their country. Some days there is this fear in the back of his head, every time one of them leaves for an operation, a fear that it may be the last time he’d bid them goodbye. Some of these men may have not been given that privilege, some of them may have never been able to say goodbye to their son, their wife, or parents.

Peter’s thoughts came to a stop as he finds a special gravestone among the other, he stops from his stroll and looks. There among the many black headstone, one stands out among them, a headstone with two names, two separate date of birth, two separate date of death and different ranks. Peter crouches to the ground without touching the said gravestone, and he reads the name out loud.

“Anthony Edward Muller. Stefan Grant Sumer.”

Peter notes the fact that it is the only gravestone that has two names in it, their last name does not imply any obvious familial relation which is often the cases in shared headstones. Their death are neither in the same date either, Anthony Muller died almost a month earlier than Stefan Sumer. It is quite a curious thing to see.

Curious, the tourist walks up to the caretaker and greets him. The man looks up to him with a raised eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, he waits until Peter begins to speak.

“Uhm there’s…there’s that gravestone, I’m kinda curious why they’re put together like that?”

The man tilts his head to the side, confusion clearly paints his expression and he scratches the back of his neck.

“No, English.” He says in a heavily accented voice.

Peter blushes, of course, he cant expect everyone to speak English especially in a small village in Romania. He apologizes and decides to gesture towards the tombstone and raises two fingers up.

“Uhm, two people only one gravestone?”

The man thankfully understood as soon as Peter gestures to the stone. The man nods and replies in his native tongue.

 _“Prieteni._ ”

Peter blinks, it takes a bit of a while before his lessons with his father came back to him. Prieteni, _a friend_ in Romanian. Peter looks back to the stone, he had heard of stories from the army from his father and uncles and most of the time the time in service would often lead to friendship between soldiers as they have no one else to trust but each other, however if that would have been the case more of the tombstone would have more than one name engraved in it.

The tourist feels a gentle tap on his shoulder, as soon as Peter turns to face the caretaker again he points at the pamphlet in Peter’s hands. To his surprise the man says something in Romanian, Peter catches the word _more_ , _story_ and Muller among the man’s word. With the minimal information Peter gathers that the man is telling him to go to the point to find out more about the person resting on the said tombstone.

The man smiles at Peter before turning away. It is clear now that he wanted an answer he needed to go there. Peter looks at the pamphlet, the man pointed at the clock tower marked on the map behind the pamphlet.

With the curious case of two names in one headstone, Peter set off next to the clock tower in the heart of the village. By the time Peter arrives it was already nearing afternoon. Unlike the cemetery, there are more people there, some are children and some are perhaps backpacking tourists. It is still quiet and less than most places he’s been as a child, which he thanks for.

The tower is of medieval design as if frozen in time it sits there uninterrupted. Peter gets inside and for a moment marvel in the displays before he finds himself haunted by the questions that hang in the back of his head. He navigates through the halls until he finally finds the hall that is solely dedicated to World War I.

Amongst the display are several pieces of clothing, vests, jewerly, weapons, maps and pictures. He is almost lost among the thousand items until he stumbles upon a set of photographs that causes him to pause. The first picture is of a family in black and white, the lady stood behind his husband, her face soft and with a soft smile, her hair tied to the back in a bun while her husband sat in a chair holding what seems like a book, his face seemingly void of emotion. Just across him were two boys perhaps between the ages of seven and six. The taller of the boys wore a lighter shade of clothes than the smaller. The smaller of the two had a curly dark hair with a timid smile in his lips. Under the display is a label— _Muller Familie_.

This is it, Peter thought this may be where the answer to the question he has. He reads the rest of the label which thankfully has an English translation below—he really should have paid more attention when his Dad thought him German, Russian and Romanian when he was younger.

The Muller family is a wealthy family of four who moved into the village, their family was known for their generous nature and influence. The Muller couple had two sons, the eldest named Arno James Muller and his youngest Anthony Edward Muller.

As soon as Peter finishes reading the label he moves to the next photograph, the image made his eyes slightly wide. The next photograph is that of a three young men, one of them stood slightly farther from the back the other is smiling at the camera standing simply in the middle of the room and the other is sitting on a chair with a lopsided grin that eerily reminds him of his Mother’s smile. The man standing slightly farther in the room seems to have moved when the picture was taken as his face is slightly blurred while the man standing the middle of the room had an uncanny similarity with the young man sitting on the chair.

The man on the chair had the same curly hair that was slightly tousled, his eyes has a bright glint in it in contrast to the older man beside him. The man on the chair has an obvious resemblance to the youngest in the first picture and Peter easily deduces that the man is Anthony Muller, if the man is Anthony would the man in the back be Stefan?

Peter reads the label but sadly none of it tells anything of a person named Stefan, but instead the man in the back is named J. Hermann, and is apparently a close friend of Anthony. The two went to the same high school which is the local high school just right beside what is now the cemetery. With a sigh Peter turns to the next photo and it was of a different era, Anthony is dressed in a uniform and so is his brother. An older man stands between them with chest puffed out a proud grin.

The glints in Anthony’s eyes are no longer in there like they were in the first and second photograph.   
Peter couldn’t help but look at the third photograph, there seems something familiar about Anthony’s eyes as they stare right back at him. The almond shape eyes, the dark irises that if he could guess were that of succulent chocolate brown felt as if it reaches to him. It reminded him again of his mother except that his mother’s had a seemingly perpetual light of humor, grace and life in them whilst Anthony’s looked as if they were snatched from him.

The photographs ended there, there was nothing else more of Anthony nor the strange identity of Stefan Sumer.

The fact that Anthony truly exist must mean that somehow, Stefan must have too. And why he, a wealthy man in his time would be simply buried with another in a shared grave, usually people of importance like him would have been buried with his family in a lavish mausoleum but since that is not the case there must be something else that is left from them to know.

The brunet turns around, he scans frantically at the displays looking for anything that mentions any Muller, or Sumer but he finds none. He stands there as the people begin to leave as noon struck. Most people would have surrendered by now, turn away and just return to their peaceful tour but if there is anything he got from his mother it is perseverance and stubbornness—much often to his father’s demise.

Peter walks down to the ticketing booth where a man dressed in quaint white pressed shirt and dark slacks greets him in Romanian. Peter was too preoccupied in his quest that he forgets and begins to speak in straight English.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the Muller family?”

The man states at Peter for a while before he erupts to a laughter. He looks at Peter and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Oh my, yes of course.” He says in perfect English which made Peter’s eyes wide with delight. Finally someone who speaks English. “Where are you from, are with your family?”

Peter shakes his head.

“No, just me.” He says. “I’m touring.”

“Oh are you like one of those kids?” the man asks, “The kids who comes for their World War I research papers?”

Peter isn’t but then again it’s better excuse than telling someone he’s obsessed with the fact that there are two names in a gravestone. He nods and the man smiles kindly. He checks in his wrist watch and gets up. He calls someone and the other man took his place behind the desk and gestures to him with a smile.

“There’s a small diner close here, do you wanna have lunch while you interview me?”

Peter nods and follows the man to a small family owned diner which is literally just right beside the tower. The place obviously had changes in it buts its walls and posts are obviously old but well maintained. The man suggested a local delicacy and they begins to have their lunch. The food is nice, and the diner isn’t crowded enough for the brunet to be able to admire the well preserved estate.

“The Mullers had only two kids, both boys. Sadly the mother contracted a sickness before the boys even stepped into school. The boys were smart and was known around the village, their family is well liked.” The man tells Peter over a cup of tea. “They both went to the same high school, but the youngest was sent to Munich for college. They said that the youngest is the brightest among the two Muller boys so ther sent him to study there.”

“Oh.” The brunet says, “But didn’t he… he died here right?”

“Yes.”

“But wasn’t he sent in Munich? How did he got back?”

“The war.” The man answers. “He, his father and his brother all went to serve during the war and he got injured. He was sent back on December 1916 to their home but he died anyways on December 17, 1916 in their house.”

There is a sadness that filled Peter knowing this, as his father always told him war is never a story of triumph just lots of sacrifices and tragedies. His fingers trace the designs on the cup as he listens to the rest of the story. After Anthony died, his father died soon in duty, and the remaining Muller is Arno who returned home after the war.

“And what about Sumer?” Peter asks.

The man furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“Sumer?”

“Yes. Stefan Sumer.” He says but there is no recognition on the other’s expression. “Wasn’t he buried with him? How did they meet? Why are they buried together in the cemetery?”

The ma nods finally understanding this. He shrugs.

“They say they were very close friends during the war.” The man says. “Nobody really knows much about that. Sumer may be just some poor folk who couldn’t afford a gravestone.”

Peter raises an eyebrow.

“But wasn’t the gravestone commissioned by the mayor that time?”

The man laughs and without any help simply shrugs. Peter sighs internally, he feels like chasing his tail. Maybe that’s just it, maybe they’re just oddly close friends who the mayor thought were fit to be laid to rest together. Maybe it’s just that… but it felt off. There is something that simply doesn’t add up, a nagging feeling of a massive piece missing.

The man finally tells Peter he needs to head back to the museum, Peter follows him to the door but as soon as he reaches them he stops and for some reason drawn to a print displayed on the wall on his side. He stops and admires it for a while, his mother is an engineer and his father though a military man is an artist by heart, both of them valued aesthetic in a sense so Peter appreciates one whenever he sees it. And there it was a lonely picture of what seems like a view of a street with the clock tower visible behind a citadel.

Just as hope seems frail, Peter’s eyes fell on the signature below the picture that reads S.Suyner.

He reads the label below the image and it was as if the heavens opens up for him, the title of the work reads as Camera lui Tony. Tony… Anthony. Something spins in Peter’s head, the picture is not just any picture, it is a painting of Anthony Muller’s home by someone the same initials as the man he’s looking for.

Peter’s eyes widen, Sumer is a Germanization of the name Suyner. The painting is signed by S. Sumer.

The glee quickly feeds into him, the house looks oddly familiar and basing on the position of the tower behind it Peter deduced the citadel should be just north. Without thinking twice he thanks the man he is with and runs out of the diner towards North.

He could be wrong, the house like many things in the village may not be there anymore after a more than a hundred years but he had to know. He needed to see where it once stood, a proof of an existence that the rest of the world seems to have forgotten.

Panting Peter finally arrives and to his surprise it still stands there right where it was painted but it wasn’t a home anymore instead it is now an inn. He stands there staring at the estate, he see the window that is visible from the picture. As he is busy marveling at it the gate opens and a older lady steps out and greets him in a heavily accented English.

“Are you looking for a room?” she says.

Peter blinks, “Oh, Uhm… no but I… you may have answers to the questions I have.”

As any normal person would do that that situation, the woman’s eyes widen and she eyes Peter suspiciously. When the teen notices it he quickly pulls out the ‘World War I research paper’ card. To his surprise the woman accepts his excuse and welcomes him in. She begins to tell the story of the citadel which is mostly just as the man from the museum said.

The home is lavish and beautiful with tall ceilings and chandeliers, the floor is marble and the vases were obviously expensive. Peter’s eyes turn to room above them, it should be Anthony’s room.

“The room above, that’s Anthony Muller’s room right?” he says and the woman looks at him with disbelief. She nods.

“How did you know?”

“There’s a painting in the diner, it’s says Tony’s Room and it has the picture of this room in it.”

The woman nods with a smile.

“Would you want to see it?” she says and Peter nods.

She leads him to the Anthony’s room and it was empty as he expected save for a closet leaning against the wall, an empty shelf and a bed in the middle of the room.

“This is my great grandfather’s brother’s room.” She says and Peter turns to her in shock.

“Oh you’re his great granddaughter?”

“Oh yes.” She says in a tender voice. “My mother was his granddaughter.”

Peter nods in understanding as he simply stared at the room and before he knows it the woman walks up to the closet and opens the door.

“My name is Dorothea.” She says and Peter smiles.

“My name is Peter.” He replies as she walks up to him holding a suitcase.

“That’s a wonderful name.” she replies as she set the case beside Peter. “These have been here for God knows how long. I’ve only recently found it. You should see them, they may help with your research. It’s a lot so you can stay in a room or eat at the diner downstairs.”

Peter nods and thanks her. Dorothea leaves and Peter sits down to the bed, he looks at the case and finds a mark on the handle, T.M. it says. It isn’t locked and Peter easily opens the case. Inside were folders and papers but among them is cardboard box and upon opening Peter finds pictures. There were many of them, most were unknown men in uniform with either Arno or Anthony among them. Then among them Peter’s attention is captured.

A young man wearing a uniform as well, with short blond hair, strong haw and tall stature stands in the middle of what seems may be a barracks. The man looks eerily just like his father. He flips the picture and there it was a message written in pristine hand writing;

_Tell our story, or we won’t exist._

_Yours, Stefan._

It is a vague message but it is Stefan addressed to Anthony.

It takes the whole day for Peter to finish looking through all the photographs and there is something he is now quite sure of, there is a profound relationship between the two but yet somehow no one can tell exactly what, nor perhaps no one seems to remember one of them. He lay in his bed unable to sleep that night.

He looks at the window in his room, it isn’t the same room as Anthony’s but he wondered how many times he gazed into it. He sighs and wonders how did he end up chasing a small curiosity this long, why did he needed to know this story so much, a story that time seems to have neglected.

It must have been his childish faith in love. It may have been his parents’ fault that he believes so deeply in it. When his parents met they said love was the least thing they had in mind, his mother a business minded individual who had everything and _nothing._ And his father was a young captain who was raised in a Middle class family with _nothing_ and everything. His father though adored his mother’s mind and unorthodox ways still didn’t get quite well with her, until one day like something straight out of a suspense movie she was abducted while on a business trip in the middle of desert.

His mother while in captivity managed to create a communication device out of a box of scraps and the first person who picked the call was his father. Others said looking for Stark was like looking for a needle in a haystack except the haystack stretches thousand kilometers wide. Most has given up but not his father.

His father saved his mother right in the nick of time, on his own he was able to get her out of a den of dangerous and armed terrorists. It sounds romanticized but it is really is the fact. Their relationship progressed there from friends until they’ve begun dating and soon married.

Because of them Peter believed so much in love, after all if it wasn’t for that he may not even be alive.

The next morning Peter spends two hours as soon as he wakes up looking through the photographs again and with keen eyes he spots an odd photograph that seems quite new than the rest which sides were slightly tainted yellow on the edges. In the photograph an aging man stand showing a painting of himself wearing a formal clothing, those kinds one would see in politicians’ walls, and right behind the man on the wall behind him is a hanging picture that is slightly obstructed from the view but the enough for Peter to recognize. It was Stefan’s painting of Anthony’s room like just like the one he saw on the diner.

He ran as fast as his limbs could take him down to the diner of the inn, he finds Dorothea having a tea.

“I saw this picture in the diner!” I told her as I pointed at the picture behind the stranger.

“Oh yes, I slipped the photograph when I found it in the room before. That’s James Hermann, he’s was the mayor.”

Peter blinks, he has heard of that name before. He looks down at the picture before it dawns to him, no he hasn’t heard of it, instead he had _seen_ it as J. Hermann.

“Oh he was a family friend. He and Anthony were on the same year and studied in the same high school the one by the hill.” Dorothea tells Peter. “Are you interested in him too? His family still lives down the plaza.”

Peter nods with a big smile, a hope in his search seems to light up that moment. He would take any chances to prove the existence of this story over nothing. His father has taught him after all, that as long as there is a sliver of hope, giving up should be in the farthest of his option.

Dorothea takes Peter out, they walk in the quiet morning of the village down to the plaza. The morning air is cool, and the sun is only beginning to rise up to the horizon, its colors slowly kissing the landscape. For a brief moment he couldn’t help but imagine if Anthony and Stefan once looked at the dawn and allowed the dawn to wish them morning before the war took their peace.

After a few more walks across the plaza Dorothea leads him to an estate. As soon as the knock on the door an elderly woman greets them and lets them in. They spoke in Romanian for a while before finally the woman greets Peter in the same accented English as Dorothea.

“Ah you must be the young researcher, Peter?”

Peter nods, “I… I was curious about uhm about Anthony Muller, and maybe you can tell me about his friend too Stefan Sumer?”

The elderly woman nods mutely with a tender expression.

“I see come follow me.”

Dorothea follows along with Peter. The elderly woman brings them to a small office and library. The walls were littered with artworks, paintings and sketches but among them is a similar painting Peter found in the diner, except there is one distinct difference with this one. Peter walks up to it to look, his eyes wander on the canvas looking for what exactly made it different. Living with a father who is an artist, Peter quickly finds the small detail that makes it different—the window.

“It’s unequal.” Peter murmurs which to his surprise was caught by the elderly woman’s ears.

“No, it’s not.” She says as she stands beside Peter. “It’s a shadow of a figure.”

Peter’s eyes widen, he blinks and stares more keenly at the image and indeed there is a humanly figure that is painted behind the window, the blur of color makes it seems unequal. Under the painting it is signed by the same artist, S. Sumer.

“My grandfather became obsessed with artworks as soon as his friend died. He collected so many of them and hang themm up in his office. Most of them were from amateur artists. He never got over his guilt.” The woman said with a tinge of sadness in her expression.

“Did he know Stefan Sumer?”

The elderly woman nods, she turns to a shelf and pulls out what seems to be a photo album and peels a photograph from it. She returns to show it to the tourist.

In the image, threw young boys stood by the window. The tallest among the three is a blonde young man who from Peter’s memory he could recall was whom he had assumed to be Stefan. He looked younger in that photograph wearing a black slack and long sleeved button up shirt. Beside Stefan is both Anthony and James Hermann. James is smiling equally as bright as Anthony’s with his arm slung on the dark haired teen’s shoulder.

“They went to the same high school, but Anthony and James knew each other since they were children. Stefan was an addition to their friendship when they went to high school. They were inseparable.” She tells him. “But Stefan and Anthony’s closeness was _special_ and profound.”

“Special?”

The elderly doesn’t answer she just smiles fondly at Peter. She looks at him for a while before she reaches to Peter to brush a Stray strand of brown locks off his face.

“Oh my, don’t you look like Anthony?” she says in a solemn tone.

“I thought so too.” Dorothea adds which makes Peter raise an eyebrow. “Oh you look quite like him in his pictures as a teen, with those brown eyes and tousled hair.”

Peter chuckles, it’s impossible, he thinks, and though many have pointed out his similarities with his mother surely he couldn’t have looked like someone who has died a hundred year ago. The elderly woman returns to her story again, as she looks back to the painting.

“On the day before they were meant to finish high school, they planned to leave the village, and go somewhere else just the two of them. But James, my grandfather he found out and he went to tell Lord Muller. He was shock and displeased so he sent Anthony to Munich to study, he forced him away from Stefan.”

Peter’s eyes widen at the revelation. The woman’s expression turns slightly sad and she looks at Peter.

“For years to come, my grandfather would regret his action and since had made sure all of us in our family would know about his friends. He told them to all of us, told us to make sure no one forgets either of them, so that they’re story lives on.” She says in a quiet voice. “That same year, 1914 the first World War will erupt. Anthony was forced to return but to prevent him and Stefan from meeting, Lord Muller would send Anthony to the war with him and his eldest son until the following year when he would return from the battle severely injured and unfortunately die from it.”

Peter takes in all the information at once. Anthony and Stefan were…they were inlove but they were forced to leave each other behind, separated by their family and the war until Anthony died.

He  thought of his parents for a brief moment, he remember every single time his father told him how much he loved Peter’s mother and for while before Peter was born, before they were married one thing he feared most was to lose her in another kidnapping, an accident or injury. He told Peter the days he would be plagued with concern, every second, day that they he would leave his sight. He could compare their love to Anthony and Stefan, and for them to be separated too long and then for such tragedy to befall on them.

He couldn’t imagine what both of them must have endured all those days.

“Stefan left the front when he found out what happened to Anthony but Lord Muller would not let them meet. But he waited by the corner of the house right where he knew Anthony’s room is. He would wake up early, walk up there and wait hoping that one day he’d have enough strength to peak from the window and catch a glimpse of him.” She looks up at the painting and adds. “In his time waiting, Stefan painted the room from the outside over and over.”

Peter didn’t realize it but as soon as the shaky words leave his lips it dawns to him and even Dorothea that the young tourist is crying. Tears begin to slip down his cheeks, his hands shaking in his side at the thought.

“Please tell me, that they’ve seen each other even just once.” Peter says with voice cracking, “Please tell me Anthony knew that Stefan did not forget him.”

The elderly smiles at Peter again, she turns back to the same shelf where she took the photo album and from another boom she pulls out a parchment. She reads it for a while as if making sure it is the right document before returning to Peter’s side. She shows it to him and lets him have it.

Peter through his tears sees the letter in his hand, it is already opened, it is old and fragile but still well maintained.

“Open it.” She encourages.

Peter does just as what the elderly told him and he finds a letter written in German with the same handwriting as the one he saw in the back of a photograph in Anthony’s case. He turns its back and he finds it signed by Stefan Sunyer, the same way he signed his paintings, to Anthony Muller, it was sent December 16, 1916, a day before Anthony Muller died.

“Do you want me to read it for you?” Dorothea asks him but Peter shakes his head.

He reaches to brush the tears off his eyes with the back of his hand. His father thought him enough German to be able to read it, though his pronunciation may not be the best he can very well read it. He gently unfolds the letter and begins to read.

_Anthony,_

_Your father won’t let us see. I turn this letter to write about the things I was not able to tell you. I want you to know that I love you. Anthony Edward I do love you._

_We have been told and taught that ours was not love, but I realize was love._

_What we have is the truest love I have ever felt in my life, and that is why my love, I could not lose you without you knowing. I have loved you the first time I spoke to you in high school. I loved you the first time you shared me your cigarette though I’ve told you we will get in trouble. I loved you the first time you smiled at me. I loved you from the time you warmed my hands with your breathe when I lost my gloves. I love you so mucgh that the mere thought of seeing you again is the sole reason I am able to survive the treacherous lands of Siberia._

_It would suffice that you would look in my eyes and you would see that my words are true, how I wish you could, my love. We would not need words, we would look at each other and we would be children once more in the halls of the institution, before death, before the guns and the bombs had made us the old men that we are._

_That is why I stand here waiting outside the window of your room waiting to catch a glimpse of you, even once would be enough. Your smile would make me believe that our love is meant to be, and to throw light to this century that was born dead._

_I love you Anthony, whatever happens I am with you._

_Yours,_

_Stefan._

Despite trying, Peter fails to hide his tears. It was such a tragedy, in this letter his guess is confirmed, the two did love each other. Stefan returned to see Anthony, he stood outside his home every single day to wait, hoping his love will have enough strength to come see him so that he may know he has not forgotten him, that despite the chaos surrounding he believes that their love is true. But Anthony, he died, did he even got this letter? If he still is with the Hermann family, would that mean it never reached him? Did Anthony even know Stefan waited for him?

“MY grandfather intercepted it.” The elderly woman says as if he knew what Peter is thinking. “When Stefan returned to village, my grandfather met with him to tell him the news. He said Stefan punched him right in his face while he told him that he could never forgive him for what he had done to them. He said that even if the punched in his face burnt, none of it could come close to the hurt one feels once you come to face the fact that you have terribly broken and hurt your two closest friends. Stefan asked and begged Lord Muller to see Anthony but he forbid it and so every day from then Stefan would stand there outside to wait, and my grandfather was forced by Lord Muller to not speak of anything about Stefan to Anthony. But as Anthony grew weaker each passing day, looking out to the window of his room as if waiting for something, or _someone_ , my grandfather soon brought all the courage he can summon. He was unable to watch his friend perish from the world without knowing the truth.

He came to see Stefan in secret and told him the truth about Anthony’s situation, he told him everything. Stefan wrote the letter and my grandfather hid it and brought it with him in his visit the next day. But Anthony had grown weak, he could barely read the words outloud so my grandfather read it to him. For a while Anthony was said to had felt better, he was able to get up from his bed and walked to the window where there he saw Stefan waiting for him. The next morning, Anthony passed away in his sleep.”

Peter looks up at the painting, so that’s why this painting is different. This painting is when Anthony had look outside. He could imagine Anthony would have been too weak to speak, to verbally tell Stefan he loved him but that surely wouldn’t have mattered to Stefan afterall he knew with just a glimpse in his lover’s eyes that he loved him as much. It was so sad, they could have left, gone to another village and grown into old wise men holding each other until the last draw of breathe but their future was taken too soon and too harshly.

They were victims of their time.

Peter’s heart aches at the revelation but still he still have unanswered questions which includes the fact that they were buried together despite Lord Muller’s objection on their relationship. If he hated Stefan so much to let allow him to see his son even his last days, why would they be buried together? Stefan died a month after  Anthony as well which seems quite strange and none has given him clue as to what fate did he face after Anthony’s death.

“What happened to Stefan after Anthony died?” Peter asks.

“He went to the funeral but he was shoved away by Lord Muller, even if my grandfather tried to explain and said he merely wanted to pay his respects as a classmate and friend, Lord Muller didn’t believe them. He didn’t let him see him even in death. Lord Muller dragged him away in front of people who attended the funeral.” The elderly answers, “Stefan left and said he’d never return, my grandfather thought it was because of the fact that the village was everything to him and Anthony. With Anthony dead, he felt the village is no longer his home.”

She takes another paper from the shelf and shows it to Peter, it was a death certificate with Stefan’s name written in it, his date of birth, and date of death and on the remarks in reads _suicide_. Peter’s eyes widen, he looks up the elderly and she nods sadly as she takes the documents off Peter’s hand and back to the shelves.

“He returned to the battle, he spent his days as a soldier until then. He shot himself in the side of his head one night.”

Stefan perhaps couldn’t withstand the pain inside him, the sound of the guns and cannons could not drown his tears away, nor can the cold winter could numb him.  

“And they were…buried together?”

The elderly shakes her head.

“Oh no. Lord Muller did not allow it, Stefan was buried alongside other soldiers who died in battle while Anthony was buried in a private land.” She says as she show a picture of Anthony’s grave, a massive name on the headstone reads Muller and underneath it is his name, date of birth and death.

Peter’s eyes widen, how is that possible, then how did they end up buried together?

“Peter it’s getting late, I assume you need to catch the bus back to the city?”

Peter shakes his head, no, he has to know the ending of this story, surely it couldn’t have ended tragically. They are together and there must be a reason, there is someone or something that allowed them to be together once more.

“B-But if they were buried separately how did they ended up together in the memorial?”

The elderly stares at Peter for a while and chuckles.

“Oh the answer to that is right before you.” she says while gesturing towards a portrait of James Hermann.

Peter stares, James Hermann was the two boy’s closest friend, the man who had unravelled the secret relationship of Anthony and Stefan, the reason why Anthony was sent to Munich to take him away from Stefan forever. But what does his great granddaughter meant when she said the answer to his question is James Hermann? Peter stares for a while until it dawns upon him, his eyes widen and lit up at the conclusion.

James Hermann, yes of course. James Hermann became _the_ mayor soon after the war ended, many cities and places erected memorials for their fallen soldiers, James’ first work was to build a memorial for soldiers who perished in the war regardless of the nature of their death. They were all gathered to be buried in a single cemetery that will be forever be known to the village and become one of the famed attraction in the years to come.

“My grandfather had wanted from the day that Stefan died that he would be buried together with Anthony. He kept it a secret until the memorial was inaugurated, but when Lord Muller saw it he was enraged, he accused my great grandfather of sullying their family name in the middle of the entire audience but he did not waver and instead he stood firm and told Lord Muller these words; _Fifteen years ago I made a terrible mistake, I killed my best friends long before the horrible war. And all of you were complicit. You were all.”_ she says before looking at Peter with a genuine smile. “It was time for them to rest at once together, he thought, as they should have lived and as heroes of something much more than a war.”

Peter notices Dorothea is shock herself but there is a glistening tears in the side of her eyes, the young tourist could only guess as tears of understanding. It is only understandable now why Lord Muller would have kept Anthony’s belongings inside a suitcase locked in a closet.

Lord Muller could not bury his son where he wanted and so he tried to bury his memory instead, away from the world. A memory today, at last comes to light right before Peter, Dorothea and perhaps for the rest.

At long last their story is no longer shrouded in the darkness, Peter thinks as he bids goodbye to the James’ great granddaughter. Perhaps this was what Stefan wanted to happen when he wrote those to Anthony. It doesn’t have to be everyone in the world, it could have been someone else as dedicated and curious enough as Peter is, it could have been one of Dorothea’s children wondering about what happened to their great-great grandfather whose resting place is shared by another person. Their story is not something to be kept in between the aging shelves of a home.

The clock ticks and Peter’s phone reminds him he needs to come back home so he returns once more back to the place where it all began.

He breathes in the crisp air as he looks at their gravestone.

Anthony and Stefan.

He repeats it over and over his head, and he looks around. It looks the same and yet not so much.

The brunet stands there in silence but perhaps silence is not the only thing there. As the wind blows, it whispers secrets to his ears, secrets that were kept away from many for so long. All of a sudden, in the silence he hears the ghost of the laughter of two sixteen years old boys who have skipped classes, hiding behind a tree to smoke, hushed conversation as one of them blows warm air to the other’s hands to warm them.

Then they would have looked at each other’s eyes and they would see the world in a shade of hope and life, then they would kiss—a kiss that would weave their fate and souls for all eternity to come.

Peter touches the tombstone, it is icy against his warm hands but he doesn’t mind and in a small voice he tells them they’re not forgotten.

“Your story, it’s been told.”

.

.

.

.

.

The airport has always been lively, Peter would often felt the dread of the fact that coming home meant he would have to return back to school in a few days but today is peculiar since he felt more excited to be home. As he reaches to the arrival he quickly recognises his parents. His mother ran on the polished floors in her expensive shoes that clank against the surface, her black skirt that reaches below her knees kept her complimented her figure well while her white shirt barely matched her clothes. Her long dark curly locks hang lazily to her shoulders down to her chest while she pulls to her side her husband. Peter’s father is still in his civilian clothes, his usual jeans and shirt and just a pair of trusty dark shoes. His rich blond hair combed back and his bright blue eyes stares at his wife like the first time he fell in love with her.

“Come now, if we miss him he will have to take a cab by himself!” Peter’s mother exclaims.

“And that would be so bad, because?” his father asks.

“Steve for the love of—our son in a tight, suffocating cab in the middle of the long traffic in New  York? He would have enough time to build a bo—“

“Natasha.”

Natasha Stark-Rogers rolls her brown ayes and decides to go against the _bomb_ joke, even being a Stark does not mean she escapes getting detained for that. Lucky for the genius billionaire, she spots her son staring at them with a smile. Oh how she miss him so much. Without further ado, she ran to him and engulfs him in a hug.

“How was your trip?” she says with a loopside teasing grin. “Did you meet some girls…or boys?”

Peter laughs and shakes his head, “Mom I went to a tiny village in Romania, there were more snow that people there.”

“Natasha stop pestering Peter, not everyone would sweep the continent for lovers.” Steve says jokingly.

Steve Stark-Rogers the only person who has managed to capture the heart of the heiress of the billion dollar Stark Industry, despite Natasha’s notorious reputation and several warning from his close friend on how the heiress brings nothing but trouble in her wake, Steve did not let it hinder him in pursuing her. Some even speculated that Steve only wanted to marry Natasha for her fortune but they knew each other more than that.

Even Peter’s closest Uncle James had even once said, perhaps in some weird way they were truly destined to meet and be with each other.

The thought crosses Peter’s mind briefly as his parents were engrossed with each other’s bickering. Now that he is looking at them, his mother does have some quite resemblance to Anthony and his father, oh how much he looks like Stefan. He chuckles to himself quietly, well who knows maybe in another world, in another time, Anthony was born a woman, and Stefan would meet him, they will have different names, parents and standing in life.

Maybe in another time, in another world they will gaze into each other’s eyes closer than the distance of a window and a house.

Maybe in another time, in another world fate is more forgiving.

“Oh, you’re being silly!” Natasha exclaims as she puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder ushering him with her. “Why don’t we just let Peter tell us what happened to his trip.”

Peter looks up at them and smile.

“I have a very interesting story to tell.”

Steve smiles back and nod as Peter begins to chatter, he reaches to push back the hair off his face, away from the small circular birthmark in the side of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Birthmarks are said to be marks on how one died in their former life.


End file.
